


Unexpected

by swmpthng



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:54:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23870395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swmpthng/pseuds/swmpthng
Summary: After centuries fighting side by side, the Marchwarden and his Arms Trainer approach a crossroads. The time has come for him to pay her his debts. But will she accept his payment? The mounting of shadows growing undetected threaten the fragile peace of Middle Earth. Stirrings of orcs and far worse beast have reached the Galadrhim and they have been called to respond.Haldir is at odds when his Arms Trainer is called to assist a company of dwarves attacked on the road to Rivendell. Will she return to him or get swept away in the torrent of the return of Sauron?
Relationships: Haldir of Lothlórien/Original Female Character(s), Kíli (Tolkien)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Unexpected

**Author's Note:**

> Hello All! I started writing this nearly a decade ago. Originally, this piece found its home on FanFiction and I never finished it. Recently and more than likely due to quarantine, I've begun writing again and was very excited to pick this story up again.

The Third Age, Year 2940

The hour grew late on the Marchwarden’s watch. It had been long since the moon met its peak, carving ghoulish shadows in the wood below where he stood at his position on the North Wall. All was quiet this night, much as it had been every other night for the past year.  
Much of life at the borders droned the same year after year and he gave many thanks it was so. As he began his training as a Warden, war raged and ravaged the land. No watch was quiet then, a constant fight for the protection of his homeland. Many lives were lost on the borders in those days. Orcs threatened to overtake not only Lothlórien, but all the free lands of Middle Earth. He had just begun his Wardenship when The Last Alliance had been struck. He was naught but a youngling, only a few hundred of years old. Those times had hewn him, skilled and perceptive, carving clear his destined path. Spending his formative years surrounded by such death only prepared him for his current post.  
Marchwarden. A title he coveted above all and it now belonged to him. Hard fought years in battle, a peace finally struck, all his worth to prove and he had done it. After nearly two thousand years of service, he bore the mantle of chief protector of Lothlórien. The highest honor and one he had longed to provide the realm. He did not hold his position lightly. With all that had come to pass in his lifetime, he knew how prepared the Galadhrim need be at a moment’s notice.  
In these peaceful times, he did however worry that his Wardens grew soft, accustomed to the peaceful nights’ rest during their stations at the borders. He could not quite place the feeling, but something stirred in the East. Oppression reminiscent of the Drowning of Númenor weighed heavily upon his senses. Many of the great elves felt it, a long slumbering impetus stirring deep beneath the lands of Middle Earth. No one, not even the Lady Galadriel knew when the strike would come, only that it would surface. This he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt. Whispers of a rumor had reached his ear. Stirrings of orcs, but it could not be true. The Watchful Peace had persisted for years. Yes, a few skirmishes had sprung up, but were quickly extinguished. These rumblings disquieted the Marchwarden, stirring up memories of the dark days. Whether what was to come was malevolent or benign, uncertainty reigned his mind.  
Haldir’s gaze flicked to the East. Hulking ramparts darkened the skyline, wreaking of far past malice that previously resided. Dol Guldur. That black hill of sorcery, once Sauron’s foothold stood lifeless for now. At one time, it reigned as Lothlórien’s most imminent threat. Should what churned be of malcontent, it would stand to reason that whatever lay in wait would take up the once powerful stronghold. The mere thought of it disquieted the Marchwarden. Preferring to not be caught off guard, his vigilance did not falter. His men often complained of his unyielding pace of training and length of time spent at the borders. Their comfort mattered little where the realm’s safety was concerned.  
Safety was his charge, one which he shouldered greatly. Restraint, regiment, repetition. From sun up to sun down, those word he lived by. All his experience culminated in his terse command of his men. There was no other way about it. Slack and Lothlórien could be compromised and this, this he would never abide. He heard how his men spoke of him, and he cared not. Marchwarden was not a position to be liked, but one to do right by the realm.  
“Haldir, I have looked all over for you,” a far too exuberant exclamation for the witching hours sounded from paces behind him.  
Haldir turned, arms still braced behind his back. “Ah, Rúmil. What news have you?”  
“How is it that even at this hour you are as tightly wound as when you began?”  
Haldir’s expression remained unchanged, lips pressed into a tight line.  
“Surely,” Rúmil resigned, knowing his brother would not budge. “Orophin and the Second and Fourth Squadrons are mobilizing to be here within the next two weeks. Stores for their term at the wall ran low thus requiring extra time to resupply. Fortunately, our brother is ever prepared and seeing this, made the necessary arrangements to keep to your schedule.”  
Haldir nodded along as Rúmil regaled him with the latest news and reports. As to be expected, Orophin ran his command as tightly as Haldir ran all of the Wardens of Lothlórien. It pleased Haldir greatly to see his middle brother following in his footsteps, as was the duty as the Master of the Guard. Though Rúmil’s leadership left something to be desired, he led his archers well. Maybe not as organized and efficient as he would have preferred, but Haldir could not discount his brother’s skill with a bow. That very skill had come well timed more often than not.  
A far off twang caught his ear, drawing his attention from his brother. The Marchwarden’s trained ear stirred no alert. It was not the sound of battle, but the far off sound of an arrow discharging and striking a target. At this hour? It was far past the time for training.  
“Had you not dismissed your archers for the eve?” Haldir questioned his Master of Archers, knowing full well that often times such details escaped Rúmil’s more jovial nature.  
Rúmil nodded. “Many hours prior.” As the succession of arrows picked up, a grin wound its way to Rúmil’s lips, realization dawning on him. “You certainly know who would be targeting at this hour,” Rúmil glibbed, fixing his elder brother with a knowing look.  
Haldir raised a pale brow. Who could- ah. The same realization settled on the Marchwarden. Only one elf kept such hours.  
At his brother’s expression, Rúmil chuckled, “I will leave this in your charge. On the morrow, dear brother.”  
Haldir shook his head, any response leaving with his brother as he took over his watch. No matter how much time passed, Rúmil remained unchanged. Still the ever garrulous youngling, only now in a warrior’s frame. Haldir had supposed more time at the borders would benefit, but now perhaps some time for Rúmil to work through his pent up zest may be preferable.  
His cloak billowed behind him as he wound his way through the walks with practiced ease. Even at this hour of night, the woods of Lothlórien were comforting, though not as warm and welcoming of the Mallorn trees of Caras Galadhon. Wistfully, he thought of his talan and his soft bed that lay in wait for him for the last several months. He shook his head, if he thought too much of the comforts of home, the last weeks of his term would cease to pass. He held his position in high honor, but even the Marchwarden missed the great city. As much as he took pride in his position, even he longed for the rest that home provided.  
Lost in his thoughts, he came upon the archery pitch quickly. From the tree branch he stood upon, a lone figure stood in the middle of the pitch. He watched as the figure stood straight, nocked an arrow, drew, aimed, fired, and struck a target at the furthest edge of the pitch. In quick succession and three bullseyes later, the Marchwarden folded his arms across his chest as he watched his Warden. Clusters of arrows burrowed deep in each target, some even splicing the previous arrows’ shafts. He hummed to himself observing. True aim. He had not seen such skill with a bow in an age. All elves possessed a preternatural skill with a bow, but this Warden seemed to have been begotten bow in hand. Their ability stood uncontested.  
The Warden ceased, finally out of arrows. Exhaustion worn clearly on them as they reached to rub their shoulder. It was then the Marchwarden chose to make his appearance.  
“Is it not late for target practice, Warden?” he called, a grin toying at the corner of his lips.  
“Marchwarden,” the Warden breathed spotting him on the walk high above. Hastily, they covered their heart and inclined their head with the utmost respect. “My apologies, I lost count of the hours.” The Warden stood in firm attention at their superior’s presence.  
“At ease, Idhriel,” he said as he descended the stairs down to the pitch. He watched as his Warden did not slacken their stance. “Please, if you have been at this as long as I know you have, there is no need to keep such rigidity.”  
Idhriel’s stance slackened slightly, a small grin forming. “If it is your command, sir.”  
Haldir grinned in spite of himself. “Indeed,” he said cooly, not to relay the humor he found in his Warden. “What causes your loss of sleep this night?”  
“If it is your wish for me to train your newest archers, I thought it best to hone my skills,” Idhriel said, finally easing in stance, “to lead by example, sir.” The Warden leaned on their bow, stretching the strained muscles in their neck and shoulders.  
“Have they been troubling you?” Haldir questioned, noting the stiffness in Idhriel’s stretching.  
They grinned wryly. “No more so than usual. Many do not take kindly to a elleth’s teachings.”  
Haldir bristled. “If they descent, you will let me know,” he told her in earnest. “Insubordination will not be tolerated in my ranks.”  
“All fairs well, Marchwarden. It is no concern of mine if they like my teaching. So long as they learn.”  
“Elleth or no, one would think they would find it an honor to be taught by the best archer in the Wardens of Lothlórien. Nay, perhaps even in all the wood itself.”  
Idhriel scoffed. “My skill is not the greatest. The greatest archer in Lothlórien has much on his shoulders and little time for impish, young archers.”  
A warm smile graced Haldir’s face. “Ever humble, Idhriel. Though you may not believe me, your skill has far surpassed my own. Though I pray you will not spread word of it.”  
Haldir’s smile was returned. “Of course not, sir.”  
“Of all the years we have known each other, Idhriel. You still cannot call me by name?”  
She sighed, shaking her head, “I would not dream of showing you any disrespect.”  
“There are no ears near to overhear,” he informed her, stretching his arms wide in indication. “Have we not been comrades for thousands of year? It is hardly any disrespect to call your friend by name.”  
“If it is that important to you, Haldir,” Idhriel laughed, bending to pick up her quiver. “I still refuse to call you by your name in front of anyone. You have a rank to maintain. How would it look if your Arms Trainer was on a first name basis with the Marchwarden?”  
“It would seem as though I care about those in my ranks, of which I do.”  
She had yet to move, and he knew she would not relent.  
“That suits me fine,” Haldir held up his hands in defense. “I do not enjoy formality between friends.” It was always a puzzlement as to why she refused to recant her position. After all they had been through and all the years they had called each other friend, it confused him so.  
“Understood,” she sighed with a wry smile. Her eyes glinted with discomfort, not unnoticed by Haldir. At this hour, no tiredness could be masked by the moon. In its fullness, it only served to highlighted her features, scars and all. The deeps mars on her cheek spread like sheet ice down the pale column of her neck and disappearing underneath her tunic. More lay plainly in view this night as it was clear her brigandine was long abandoned.  
Sensing his scrutiny, she pulled her braid over her shoulder hiding the scars from his view as she slug her bow and quiver across her back. “As for me, I retire for the evening.” Idhriel inclined her head to him as she passed, beginning up the stairs. “Perhaps you should rest as well, Haldir,” she said turning over her shoulder as she exited the pitch. “Aulë knows you have earned it.”  
Haldir inclined his head in kind. “Rest well.” His eyes trailed her as she left the pitch. He could not help but shake his head as she disappeared from his sight. Of all the Wardens he had come to know, she stood apart. Indeed she was the first elleth to join the ranks of the Wardens; that in itself set her on another plane. She thought herself a lowly Arms Trainer, but if only she knew. If only she knew the plans he had in store for her.

* * *

Haldir retired to his quarters for the evening. Exhausted, he sat harshly on the corner of his bed, sloughing off his armor. The heavy pieces slid to the floor with a metallic thunk. This tour had been his longest yet. Six months. Six long months at the borders. Granted, he had volunteered to make certain the peace remained. Taking back to back tours was not something he would repeat. Even he had to admit his strength depleted due to the relentless pace at which he pushed himself. His brothers had warned him that he would drive himself into the ground, but his duty would allow him to do little else.  
Since appointed Marchwarden, he had taken more tours, longer watches, anything to prove his worthiness of the position. Now, centuries later, his fervor to perform his duty with perfection did not ebb. His reputation as an uncompromising leader, expecting much from his men, was renowned throughout Lothlórien. Rigid as he may be, Haldir was greatly revered among his people. That fact only drove him to give wholly of himself in service of the people of The Golden Wood.  
With a heavy sigh, he lay back on his bed throwing an arm over his eyes, not even bothering to get up to wash. Two weeks remained in his stay at the borders. A reprieve would be most welcome. He had much to complete upon his return to the city. Much indeed.  
As his eyes slid closed, images of her swam through his head as he finally lay to rest. This was not uncommon for his resting hours. Idhriel often haunted The Marchwarden’s dreams, but not for the most assumed reasons. He recalled her on the pitch this evening, her stance perfect as always, but he could not neglect the stiffness in her left shoulder nor marring of her face. Those injuries were his cause and his deepest regret.


End file.
